Thankfully, Thorne agreed. Then the two of them launched into a spirited debate about local ley line ordinances, hex-mapping, and the ethics of anchoring sigils to load-bearing beams. My head spun. I didn’t understand a lick of what they said.
“We’ll also need to reinforce the southern wall with an arcane buffer,” Zayd said, tapping a blueprint with an elegantly long finger. “There’s also a high concentration of ghost activity on these premises. Higher than usual, even for Eternity Falls. I find that concerning.”
“You find everything concerning,” Thorne replied. “Maybe they just like the ambience.”
“Or perhaps something is drawing them here,” Zayd countered. “A forgotten tether, an unclosed circle. Have any of them attempted to speak with you yet?”
Thorne glanced at me. I shook my head. “They tend to communicate more physically, less verbally.”
Zayd frowned. “Ah. Hmm. Well, that’s concerning.”
Thorne smirked and arched a knowing brow.
“Isadora.”
The voice cut through the ambience in the room like a poisoned dagger.
I blinked, then turned to find Lucien standing in the open doorway, framed by the sunlight. Our gazes met before he deliberately stepped inside and closed the door with an audible click.
Ah. Yeah. Probably should have closed that.
Thankfully, he didn’t comment on it, and instead, just strode inside. He glanced at Thorne and Zayd and gave them both a nod.
“Mr. St. Germain,” Zayd said politely. “It’s good to see you. How is The Crimson Veil?”
“Profitable, thank you,” was all he said.
Thorne choked on a snicker, then shot me another glance, as though to ask, “Really? This guy?”
I merely chuckled.
“Go on,” Thorne said, waving a hand at me like I was a pesky cat. “Zayd and I can manage without you.”
Well, that much was true, considering I had no experience in these matters.
“You sure?” I asked.
“Unless you want to discuss arcane zoning restrictions with a werewolf and a djinn?”
I very much did not.
Thorne grinned knowingly, then seized Zayd by the elbow and guided him toward a table near the back. One of the few without a broken leg or cracked surface.
Shaking my head, I turned to Lucien, who—surprise!—was watching me.
And not with a scowl. Nor with one of his carefully curated expressions of indifference or strategic calculation. No. This was something else entirely.
Something heated. Hungry.
His gaze moved over me, slow and deliberate, as though he was mapping and committing every inch of me to memory. It started at my neck, where a new lavaliere necklace rested at the hollow of my throat, then swept downward. His attention lingered at my waist, cinched by a narrow belt, then down to the tailored black trousers that hugged my hips with criminal precision.
The ensemble, along with everything else now tucked away in my closet upstairs, were courtesy of Thorne. During our shopping spree, she’d insisted I buy outfits worthy of the Laurent name, because in her words, I needed to look the part if I expected the council to take me seriously.
So, here I stood. Back in full heiress form. And Lucien looked like he was seconds away from combusting. Based on the heat simmering in his gaze, it seemed he wholeheartedly approved of the results.
“You look…” He paused, as though he needed a moment to consider his next words. “Like trouble.”
My lips curved. Of all the things he could have said, that was perfect. I liked causing him trouble.
